My interior monologue is spoken by a petite, sardonic, animated man with a beard and thick brown hair in a pony tail, a younger Rip Torn. When I’m having sex, he appears and starts talking about car accidents.
He watches reruns of Friends, it's the only show that shuts him up, sometimes it makes him cry.
Rip has an inner child that is too precocious for its age. He argues with it while I’m trying to sleep. Rip won his inner child from a crane machine game at an interstate oasis gas station.
Rip listens to Bob Dylan, likes Tarkovsky movies, and refuses to ride in elevators. He also likes it when I dress sexy and tell people I’m a physicist – which I’m not.
When I go grocery shopping at two o’clock in the morning, he comes with me. He’s the one who started me eating full fat yogurt.
Rip prefers dominos to chess, Syrah to Merlot, and tall blondes with small breasts. He still uses the word oriental to describe people of eastern descent. Rip seldom raises his voice. But I know when he’s disapproving.
He agrees with me that dog shit is still a problem on New York City streets.